A Fickle Thing
by Doc Roe
Summary: Set in Season 5. Sometimes Castiel doesn't go back to heaven whenever he leaves Dean and the gang.


**Um, just a short thing I wrote while listening to Onerepublic's "Good Life", as I imagine it the song she is dancing to. **

**I don't own Supernatural or the characters mentioned, except for my dancer. She is but a figment of my own imagination.**

**Review if you like :)  
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Hope was a funny thing. It seemed to be a fragile thing to hold onto for those who knew the truth of the world- what was coming and how badly it was going to happen. But for those who were ignorant of the all-holy war that was sure to descend upon the world, well, they otherwise had nothing to fear. They could simply live in their blissful ignorance until the time came that they all would perish. Some would go to hell, most would go to heaven; things would play out exactly as they were supposed to.

However there were some forces out there working to stop that particular plan. Those people had hope for the future. Hope that maybe, tomorrow would be different. Things could change for the better. _They_ could save the world, as cliché as it might've seemed. A college drop-out, his fast talking older brother, a mother-daughter tag team, a veteran hunter, and a rouge angel. Team Free Will, they were dubbed. Though small, they were mighty in spirit. And whatever came at them in the coming weeks, they'd do what they did best. But, it wasn't hard to forget that they might just lose. It was an ever-present state that hung in the backdrop- a constant reminder that gnawed at them.

For the rouge angel, Castiel, it dug at him profusely.

It was dusk when he stood in Central Park. It was broad area where street performers were most prominent. His hands were dug deep in his pockets and his head held high. He curiously looked on with some of the other people spaced around a young girl who danced. A large boom box sat on a bench as music poured out into the crowd. A fedora sat on top with a few crinkled bills inside. Humans were fickle creatures, he couldn't help but think. A few states over, his friends were awaiting possible doom- and yet, here is this girl with wild hair, colorful shoes, and a bright smile who didn't know any of it.

She moved to almost perfect rhythm, pulling experience from childhood ballet, and years of imitating the videos she saw on TV to form a free-spirited technique. Danced as David had, as was told in the biblical stories- if he had to recall a reference. Her eyes were closed and Castiel knew that she wasn't really performing them. A smile was bright. Hands free. If this was all he knew about her, he could see that she was actually _happy. _And that much was strange. The song eventually faded and the people erupted into applause. She bowed graciously to her audience, winded, moving her hair out of her face.

Some people dropped a few dollars in the hat, others quarters, and most just went on about their business. Wiping her forehead with the back of her palm, she collected her money, stuffing it into her pocket. She was done for the day. Castiel remained standing in place. He looked at her with inquiring eyes. She tried not to notice, but when he wasn't even blinking, uncomfortable wasn't even close. It was New York. Creepers were always a giant fear of hers.

"Look man," she said backing away, gripping the boom box's handle tight, "I don't want any trouble." She looked right into the eyes that pierced her as his brows pulled together slightly.

"I don't have any intentions of harming you." His hoarse voice stated matter-of-factly, rather than comforting assurance.

"Then… why are you still standing there?"

In all actuality, he wasn't entirely sure. His experience in human social interaction was limited.

His head tilted as he looked around; looking for the perfect words that wouldn't send her running like the last girl he had an encounter with.

"Why do you dance?" Castiel then asked instead.

"What?"

"You perform for people."

"That I do." She replied hesitantly. "You've never seen dancers before?"

Castiel looked away, rubbing his neck- suddenly recalling his excursion with Dean. "I have… just none like you."

"Well, what can I say," She smiled, almost flattered. "I'm one of a kind."

He motioned over to the bench to sit at one end, staring out into the city, his hands still in the trench coat pockets. He seemed almost harmless.

"I find the human existence quite strange," Castiel sighed.

"Well the way I figure it, I could be like all the other kids on the streets who need money and deal crack or start stripping." The girl admitted, taking the opposite end of the bench.

"And you chose not to?"

"Of course! I mean, yeah, I need money- but it doesn't mean I have to become like some of the other low-lives in this city. It's like my mama always told me- if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything."

Castiel found himself smirking. "It is an honorable moral code to live by."

The cool breeze sang through the trees and engulfed the pair as the sun was now completely set behind the buildings on the Upper West. The first shades of purple were beginning to bleed through the sun's pinks and oranges.

"It's interesting," he then whispered.

She turned her direction to him, studying his profile. "What is?"

"I often feared that my old comrades were right. In that humanity had lost its way. They told me that you all concerned yourselves with sinful deeds; killing, stealing, addictions."

"Lost all hope?"

"I thought I did."

She smiled; finding his detachment strange, yet almost admirable. A trench coat-clad stranger who seemed to appear out of nowhere. She turned back again, hoping to continue their existential inquisition, but he wasn't there. The smirk quickly faded as disappointment set in for she knew she'd probably never see him again.


End file.
